


now I lay me down to sleep

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Romance, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-13
Updated: 2007-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-03 20:36:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8729179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Dean wonders when Sam prays.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**Title** \- now I lay me down to sleep  
**Pairing** \- Sam/Dean  
**Rating** \- R  
**Word Count** \- ~1600  
**Spoilers** \- for episode 2.13 - Houses of the Holy  
**Summary** \- Dean wonders when Sam prays.  
  
  
  
  
  
_**now I lay me down to sleep**_  
  
  
Now that Dean knows about it, he keeps waiting to catch Sam doing it everywhere.   
  
He watches Sam when they get dressed in the morning, skin and hair still damp from their showers and wonders: _Did he do it just now? Did I miss it_?  
  
They leave the motel; winter air makes Dean lose his breath, his eyes tear up. He starts up the car and rubs his hands over the creaking heater, blowing into his fists and watching Sam from the corner of his eye.   
  
Sam frowns and stares straight ahead. "What?"  
  
_I'm just waiting_ , Dean thinks. _Are you doing it now_?  
  
He says, "Nothing," and pulls out of the parking lot with a roar when Sam looks like he's going to start asking questions.   
  
Like with everything else in the world, Dean doesn't believe that Sam prays because he's never seen it. Until he finds Sam crouched on the floor with a string of rosary beads in one hand and a Gideon Bible in the other, in his head, Sam doesn't pray.   
  
But he wonders, now, and it's pissing him off.   
  
*  
  
They find a diner a few blocks from the motel. Dean orders a bacon cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate shake; Sam orders a Greek chicken wrap and coffee. The waitress wrinkles her nose and scratches her dyed red hairline with the eraser of her pencil.  
  
"For breakfast?" she asks.   
  
"We had a long night," Dean tells her, holding his hands up in the air and giving her his best smile.   
  
When she walks away, Dean finds Sam watching her, his eyes slanted and narrow, his gaze direct.   
  
_Is this what he looks like when he's praying_? Dean thinks. _Eyes all scrunched like that_? _Is this what--_  
  
"Dean?" Sam's watching him now with the same look.   
  
Maybe that's just Sam's face.   
  
Dean shakes his head. He thinks he's probably losing his mind.   
  
*  
  
They spend the day in the town doing normal things. Sam takes their clothes to the laundromat; Dean stays behind and cleans the guns and knives.   
  
He leaves the TV and radio off. The only sounds are the soft swipe of cloth over metal, the dull roar of cars passing by outside the motel window, and his own thought's bouncing around in his head all day.   
  
_Maybe he's not doing the laundry. Maybe he's at church. Maybe he's sitting in the car on the side of the road, praying. Maybe he only prays once a week on Sunday. Maybe he prays every day, all day long._  
  
Dean finishes cleaning the guns and Sam's still not back. He leans back on the bed and stares at the ceiling until he falls asleep.   
  
*  
  
Dean wakes up to the feel of Sam's thumb on the corner of his mouth, the fingers of his hand curled over Dean's cheek. Outside the window the sun is going down. It's probably close to dinnertime, and Sam's watching him with soft eyes, his mouth pink and parted and wet.   
  
Dean reaches up and curves his hand over the back of Sam's neck. He pulls him down and kisses Sam's mouth.   
  
Sam is heavy on top of him, one thigh between Dean's legs. His hair falls forward and covers Dean's face. Dean inhales, smells Sam's cologne, the cheap motel room soap from his shower this morning. He's hard in his jeans. When he shifts against Sam's thigh, Sam smiles against Dean's skin.   
  
"You okay?" Sam whispers against his throat. Dean's skin prickles in goosebumps. His hands twist in the back of Sam's flannel shirt and he pulls Sam closer. "You've been weird all day."  
  
_I'm wondering about you_ , Dean thinks. _I don't know anymore what you do when I'm not around._  
  
Dean turns his head and kisses the line of Sam's jaw. "I'm good," he tells him.   
  
*  
  
Dean watches Sam sleep that night, the covers pushed down to his waist, pale moonlight kissing the dips and lines of his chest.   
  
_What are you looking for_? he wants to know. _What are you asking God that you can't ask me? Do you pray for Dad? For Mom? Do you pray for yourself_?  
  
Sam sleeps and doesn't answer. His chest moves steady with each breath. He doesn't flinch when Dean presses fingers over his heart. _Do you pray for us_?   
  
*  
  
They wake up again, shower again, go to the diner again. Dean can't stop watching Sam. Waiting for him to say something, to do something like he figures a praying person would.   
  
Sam finishes his french fries and pushes his plate away. "Dean, what's _with_ you? You've been weird for days."  
  
Dean's palms itch. He curls them into fists on top of his thighs and looks at his brother across the table. "When do you do it?" Dean asks.  
  
"Do _what_?"  
  
The diner's noisy. No one will hear what he says anyway, and if he says it and no one's there to hear it but Sam, it's almost like it doesn't count. "Pray."  
  
Sam's mouth parts. He breathes out. "Dean."  
  
"Because I never see you. And I've been watching," Dean adds when it looks like Sam's going to argue. "I've been watching you for days, man, and if you're praying it's not anyplace where I can see."  
  
Sam looks down. The wrapper from his straw is lying on the table, and he picks it up. Flattens it out and twists it around the top of his finger so tight it rips in two. "I don't sit on the floor with my head bowed every night before bedtime, Dean," Sam tells him. "I'm not a little kid. I just _do_ it."  
  
And this is the part Dean doesn't _get_. "Yeah, but _when_?"  
  
Sam meets his eyes and smiles easily. "All the time, Dean."  
  
*  
  
They go back to the motel, and Sam pushes Dean across the room to the bed, falling on top of him with the blankets and sheets twisted under their bodies. He kisses the hollow of Dean's throat, the inside of his elbow. Every time Dean tries to talk, Sam covers his mouth with a kiss, desperate and bruising.   
  
"I pray before a hunt," Sam tells him. Huge hands find Dean's waistband and yank his t-shirt up. Warm fingertips dance across his belly. "When we're done with a hunt. Every time we find someone we can't help. Every time someone dies." Sam's hand, scarred with calluses, shoves down into Dean's jeans and boxers and curls around his dick. Dean chews on his bottom lip and thrusts his hips up into the heat of Sam's fist.   
  
"Sam-"  
  
"Every day, Dean. Every day I pray for Mom and Dad. For Jess-" and Jesus _fuck_ hearing his brother's ex-girlfriend's name shouldn't make Dean react this way. Like he has to pull Sam down closer, lick his way over Sam's lips, eat into his mouth like Sam's breath is the last they'll share. It shouldn't make Dean feel like he's dying, but it does, and he rolls them over, fucks into Sam's hand and kisses him until he stops speaking.   
  
"I pray to say thank you every day." Sam twists his head away and breathes, broken and rough. Dean yanks his jeans down, takes them both in his hand and jerks in long, slow strokes. Sam pushes up, one foot on the floor, shoving his hips up harder, grabbing Dean by the hair and dragging him down until their foreheads press together, mouths nearly touching.   
  
"Every fucking day I say thank you for this, for _you_." Dean feels his orgasm blowing through him. He pushes his face into Sam's neck, bites his lip and groans as he spills all over his hand, covering both their cocks and bellies.   
  
Sam is still talking, babbling nonsense words and pieces of prayer, and Dean can't take it. He can't hear anymore, can't know what Sam does, when he does it, why. Sam's mouth is open, his eyes shocked wide, and Dean just takes. Fucks Sam's mouth with his tongue, presses his fingers against Sam's throat, and strips his cock until Sam shakes and pants and comes in Dean's palm.   
  
"Dean. _Dean_ …God." Sam stares at him, eyes wide and blinking, but Dean doesn't need to hear it. He doesn't need words or prayers. He has Sam, and he has their bed, sweat and spit and come as their benediction.   
  
*  
  
"Are you doing it now?" It's hours later and Dean's awake, staring at the ceiling with Sam lying on his chest. Sam's fingers are drawing circles on his skin, twisted lines and random patterns, and Dean thought he'd be better, once he knew. That he'd stop wondering about it.   
  
He was wrong.  
  
"Do you want me to announce it every time I do?" Sam answers, but he's smiling, Dean can tell.   
  
Dean laughs quietly. "Not every time."  
  
Sam smiles again, then turns his head to lightly bite Dean's chest. "All right," Sam takes a breath, and then, "I'm doing it now. I was thinking: thank you for this, and for today, and help us again tomorrow." He turns his head and looks up Dean under the fringe of his bangs. Wide, soft eyes and Dean's hands tighten involuntarily. He pulls Sam closer without even realizing it. "That all right?"  
  
Dean still can't see it. He can't feel it. It's not real to him and it never will be no matter how real it is to Sam.   
  
But, hell. It can't hurt.   
  
"Yeah, Sam," he says softly. "Yeah, it's fine."   
  
  
  
-end-


End file.
